


Titanic (USUK Edition) (unfinished)

by MysticGrimoire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, I believe he is generally a nice character, I don't say that to be rude, I say that because all other versions made Francis a sodding cumbag, I wrote this because there were no other good versions, I'll be giving him a different position, James Cameron's Titanic, M/M, Perhaps I'll keep him the same since no character deserves to be hated, SO, USUK Titanic AU, USUK version, a bit of foul language, and Hockley is replaced by someone else, and despite my love-hate concept toward the character, and toward the end some nerve-wracking description., not a perverted arseface
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-09-18 01:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9357980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticGrimoire/pseuds/MysticGrimoire
Summary: 84 years after the famous ocean liner the Titanic sinks, modern treasure hunter, Ricardo Cruz, takes a journey to the bow of the ship's wreckage with his crew mates in order to find a rare blue diamond- the Heart of the Ocean. The necklace was confirmed to possibly have been in a safe, but once said safe was uncovered, there was not diamond to be found. The mission seemed to have been a bust. However, the finding of a charcoal drawing lead the men to Arthur, a survivor of the shipwreck, who may know something about the heart. Through knowing him, Ricardo and his team learn about the true secrets hidden within history, and the concealed affair inside a man's heart.





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> I would firstly like to thank you for opening this work, and I do hope you enjoy reading it.  
> The credit for the fantastic script goes to James Cameron, and the excellent characters are full property of Hidekaz Himaruya. I did alter a little bit of the script and direction to better fit the characters and their relations.
> 
> All feedback is welcome with the exception of criticism. Any criticism meant to be constructive is, however, welcome.

The surrounding area was just blackness. You could look on for ages, even with a light on, and unless you were close to the floor, there wouldn’t be much to see. Just more darkness for miles and miles. There would seem to be nothing there at all.  
After all, that is what you’d expect from 3,800 metres below the surface of the Atlantic ocean, where hardly any sun touches the rusty surface of a sunken mystery.

Two faint white lights gleam in the deep darkness, soon making it clear that their sources are two deep submersibles. They seek the dimly-lit bow of a rusted ship, seemingly waiting for someone to save its lost souls years after its demise. One submersible is swimming ahead of its companion. It looked almost like a UFO as it free-falls across the water, illuminating it with blueish light. The men behind one of the vessels are leant above the controls in a drowsy state, crammed inside a small sphere of about two metres in diameter--hardly any room comfortable for three men.  
It’d been a two hour descent.

  
A significantly tall man with sandy blond hair and a prominent, yet fitting nose was hunched over the controls with a small smile on his face and a silent Russian song on his lips to entertain himself. His blue sweater was pulled over his hands to keep warm. Next to him was a snoring Cuban with a small blanket over his comparatively large shoulders. His short, dark brown ponytail was starting to slip out of shape. Across from the two, one more sleeping figure rested, nearly drooling. His blond hair was wilder than usual that day. It managed to gather around the opening of the man’s hood, which was pulled over his head. The strings were pulled loosely and made him look like a black egg from behind.

After what seemed like ages, the only man awake saw the wonderful sights of the empty sea floor and beamed brighter than before. The sands were lightened up by a pale blue light as the whole vessel created a thump the moment it landed.

  
Like an alarm clock, the two men at slumber shot up and pulled themselves out of their dreamland at the sudden turbulence.  
“We are here,” the man said half-jokingly in reference to his groggy friends.

“Ivan, I swear to god, if we’re any further than I think we are,” the other blond replied, his hood now down to display his wild hair.

The broad man beside Ivan simply pulled his blanket around him. The Danish man with the wild hair tossed a neck pillow at his stubborn Cuban friend.

“Ughhh, Mathias, cut it out.” was the response earned.

“C’mon, Ricardo,” Mathias grumbled. “Ivan says we’re there… Ish.”

A good five minutes later, all three explorers were now wide awake and tuned into the sonar beeping along as they stared at their screens and the clay surface of the seafloor.

“Thirteen metres, you should see it,” Ricardo explained as he watched the monitor, its colourful display creating a faint image of the ship.

“Okay, take her up and over the bow rail.”

  
Ivan peered through one of the small windows. “Okay, Mir2, we're going over the bow. Stay with us.” The lights shone on the old deck. The sight was almost eerie, and if you weren’t as excited about finding the wreck as the men were, you’d think the view mixed with the mechanical whirring was an unsettling blend. There were rusticles forming all along the bow’s railing.

  
Ricardo picked up a camera. “Okay, quiet. We're rolling.”

  
The image of a heavily aged ship ran across the eyes of the underwater trekkers, causing them to all smile brightly in triumph.

  
The Cuban laid down and pointed the camera out the window to capture the sunken bow of the Titanic. “Seeing her coming out of the darkness like a ghost ship still gets me every time,” He began dramatically. “To see the sad ruin of the great ship sitting here where she landed at 2:30 in the morning of April 15, 1912 after her long fall... From the world above.” A lighthearted snicker escaped Mathias as he looked down at his comrade.

“You are so full of shit, boss,” he snarked. Ricardo just rolled his eyes and chuckled.

  
The two submarines floated above the length of the ship. Every inch of it was coated in algae and other seawater plants.

“Dive six-- Here we are again on the deck of Titanic, two and a half miles down, 3,821 metres. The pressure outside is three and a half tonnes per square inch.” He sat up and pointed the camera at his face.

“These windows are nine inches thick, and if they go... it's sayonara in two microseconds. Alright, enough of that bullshit.” He then shut the camera off and put it down.

The lights illuminated windows and more levels of the deck. You could almost hear the ghostly voices of the men and women from 84 years ago. Ricardo pulled his his own grey sweater over his head. A short sleeved button-up was certainly not going to keep him warm thousands of feet under icy cold waters.

“Just put her down on the roof of the officer's quarters like yesterday,” he directed toward Ivan, who was still observing his surroundings from one of the windows.

“Sure,” he responded, pulling his gaze from the depths outside to begin the task. Over the radio, Ivan’s heavily accented voice was heard from the other submarine, where three other men sat in preparation. One of them held the controls for an unmanned underwater vehicle (UUV) in his lap.

“Okay, Mir 2. We have landed right on the grand staircase. You guys set to launch?”

  
“Yeah, Ivan, Launching Dunkin now.”

  
“Dunkin,” their UUV, began floating out of the sub with only small propellers to carry it forward, its orange body releasing its own light and free falling downward. The UUV was pulled outward to avoid colliding with the ship’s surface.

“Okay, Ricardo, we’re dropping down along the hull.”

“Yeah, roger that. Ok, drop down and go into the first class gangway door. I want you guys working the D deck reception area and the dining saloon. ”

“Copy that.”

The UUV drifted off to the side and found an opening on the hull shaped like a square. It was framed with lumps of brown and shades of green. It served perfectly as an entrance zone for the deep orange device. Inside Titanic was ghostly and past antiquated. The decades were clearly taking a toll on her, as the intricate designs began to rust and break away. The camera on Dunkin captured the aquatic debris as it floated around the once surfaced ship. Bits of seaweed and kelp acted like dust. The whole premises was lit by Dunkin’s lights, which hung upon its front like a bug’s antennae. Another UUV of exact build was released and began its descent down a stairwell.

“Snoop Dogg is on the move! We're headed down the stairwell,” Ricardo informed the others over radio. It was Mathias’ turn to control it, his own set of controls in his lap and lenses like a VR around his head. It seemed Ivan was the only one thinking the name chosen for the vehicle was ridiculous since he refused to be the one to announce its release at all times. He simply watched on.

  
“Okay, Mathias, drop down to B deck,” the Cuban requested. In the left-eye view of their UUV, a load of rusticles and more darkness could be seen.

  
“Give me some rope, Captain,” the Danish man joked with a focussed tone.

  
Ricardo pointed at the monitor as if it were to help his friend move faster. “B deck. Get in there, get in there.”

  
“Okay...”

  
Many arches were still intact, and the three men wondered at what the place would’ve looked like if it wasn’t so deteriorated. There was a small crystal-adorned light still hanging from the ceiling, and large rusticles joined it. They all created obstacles for the UUV to evade. A pair of abandoned boots lay on the floor covered in sediment next to a surprisingly well aged pair of glasses. As the light moved on, there was also the broken off face of a porcelain doll. Eyeless, and devoid of its painted cheeks.  
They approach an entryway to a new room, which presented a challenge different from a few rusticles. The UUV is almost as wide as the doorway, and might be brushing it.  
“Watch the doorframe, watch the door frame,” Ricardo urged. “I see it. I got it,” Mathias assured, proceeding to slowly push Snoop Dogg through the frame. A few bumps took place, but aside from the minor inconveniences, they made it through. “We're good.Just chill, boss,” he pressed once more. After all, it was harder than it looked.  
Within the new room, a fireplace built into the wall still waited. It wasn’t as bright or beautiful as it was before, instead, it was just like the rest of the ship. Crusty, soaked, and far gone. It was certainly past keeping anyone warm.

  
“Make your turn, come around.”

  
“Cable out, captain.”

  
“Make your turn, watch the wall.” On the radio, a familiar voice was heard from the other submarine. “Yeah, Ric, uhh, we’re at the piano, you copy?”

  
“Okay, copy that,” Ricardo responded. As the UUV scuttled on along the length of the room, at last, its camera caught the image of another doorway. The three immediately lit up in anticipation. “Okay, that’s it! That’s it, that’s it, that’s the bedroom door!” He exclaimed in a stage whisper. This time, Snoop Dogg would go through that doorway without any bumps or scrapes. It was a slow journey, but the longer the men were able to explore the mighty vessel, the more they found that two hours of falling through metres upon metres of ocean was well worth the wait. Mathias gave a genuine smile. This is it. This is the room.  
“We’re in!” he exclaimed in delight. “We’re in, baby, we’re there!” A bedframe lay broken and obsolete. It was missing all essential aspects of a bed- a mattress, and sturdy build. It was more of a useless skeleton of furniture. Ricardo inspected the wreck of a bedroom in fascination. “That's Hockley's bed,” he confirmed. Ivan looked at the monitor, surrounding himself in an invisible aura of hate, unsettlingly still smiling to himself. “That’s where the son of bitch slept.”  
As they delved deeper, they eventually came across what likely was once an excellent washroom. A rogue tub was askew on the sandy floors. It had produced its own rust collection. A white fish slowly swam away from the light, seemingly finding no threat within it.  
“Oops, somebody left the water running,” Mathias jested as his gaze caught the bathtub. Apparently, Ricardo noticed something else, and he leant forward. “Hold it- hold it just a second, go back to the right.”  
Mathias nodded lightly to ensure the headgear didn’t fall off. He turned the UUV to the right, watching its blue surroundings slowly move in a motion blur. A small fallen door created a sort of ramp- it was leant up against a chair and a piece of plywood. They must’ve all fallen at around the same time.  
“That wardrobe door, get closer.”  
The blond turned Snoop Dogg slightly more. “You smelling something, boss?” he enquired. “I wanna see what’s under it,” Ricardo replied.  
“Gimme my hands, man,” Mathias commanded before he controlled the mechanical arms out of the device. “Alright!” He wrapped his hands around two of his own mechanical arms, which instead of grabbers had handles with buttons to allow easy movement. He pushed the arms outward, and reached for the door.

“Take it easy, It might come apart.” “Okay.”

  
“Go, go, go, go. Flip it over. Flip it over. Go.”

  
The device easily picked up the top of the ancient door as if it had muscles of its own rather than wires and bolts. The three minds behind it knew that it couldn’t hold it for long, however. “Okay, drop it.”

  
The door plopped back down onto the floor thus creating a few billows of sand and debris to cloud around it slightly. Amongst the somewhat pixely image of the monitor and the dissipating puffs of aquatic dust, Ricardo caught the image of a rusted safe. He couldn’t hold back the satisfied smile as it made its way onto his face. And Mathias seemed to notice it as well, as his own toothy grin began to plaster itself into his expression.

“Oh baby baby, are you seein’ this, boss?”

  
The three gazed in contented awe. “It’s payday, boys.”

 

Another hour later, after all three men resurfaced and re-boarded their ship, they and their crew stood on the deck as that safe was hoisted aboard on a massive hook. A whole ship of blue jumpsuit uniforms was gathered, Everyone was shouting in jubilation, a few people with champagne bottles in hand and cigars in between fingers. A man with a saw approached the safe with the intention of popping it open, so that the marine trekkers may find their desired treasure- a certain massive blue diamond necklace that was confirmed to be a part of the Titanic’s voyage. A camera crew followed Ricardo and Mathias close behind as they made their way toward the netted safe with a skip in their step, and a spike in adrenaline.

  
“Ka-ching!” Mathias shouted, giving Ivan a full-hearted high-five and laughing extraordinarily loudly. Ivan high-fived back, just as calm as ever. However, his smile said that he was just as excited as everyone else. Ricardo joined the two, thumping his tall Russian friend on the back.

“We did it.”

  
The breeze on deck blew strong, whipping Mathias’ already eccentric hair about his head. Ricardo adjusted his loose hairband to ensure he was camera-ready.  
The blond flung an arm around his dark-skinned friend’s shoulders.

“Oh,yeah. Who's the man? Who's the best, baby?” He asked rhetorically. A massive wave of confidence hit him at the bottom of the ocean, and it never seemed to leave him since then.

“Say it!” He felt… Incredible. They all did. Ricardo chuckled and shook his head. This guy will never change.

“You are, Mathias.” That response earned him a non-anticipated noogie from the practically dopamine-high Danish man. He half-grimaced half-laughed as he felt his hair grow disheveled once more. Once he was released, he pulled his deep brown hair back into place for perhaps the hundredth time. All three men were drawn to the sound of a rotating saw ripping through solid metal, and followed suit as the rest of the crew congregated toward the source. Bright sparks emitted from the friction of metal against metal as the saw cut through the safe. “Hey, Ivan, my cigar.”

Ivan nodded and pulled the cigar Ricardo had been saving for this moment and handed it to him, grabbing a cigarette for himself from the same coat pocket. Behind them, Mathias fell into a laughing fit again, but this time with a champagne bottle in his hand. It was fascinating being able to hear his laughter over even the cheering crew and the grinding metal. Across from them, a camera was pointed at the scene, panning from the crew to the man opening the safe. A sudden pop and a spray of foamy champagne flew all around as the wild blond whipped the bottle in a full circle. He then took a good gulp of it after another celebratory “Whoop!”  
The man with the saw stepped back. He placed a hook onto the opening of the safe before handing the chain to the three men.

“Will you do the honours?” he asked. Ricardo smiled and pulled the cigar from between his teeth. He looked up at Ivan and nudged him lightly. “Will you?” he said, more insisting than stating. The taller man looked to the chain and took in a large hand.

“Absolutely.”

  
"Okay, crack her open.”

  
With, indeed, a crack, the door to the deteriorating safe flew away from the rest of it. The opening released at least a gallon of copper-coloured water with a few visible lumps. Almost immediately, the Cuban lunged for the safe and began to dig through its contents. His hands ran into a few walls. Most of it was mushy, and unpleasantly so. There was no contrasting colour, everything sporting the same burnt sienna shade. The man was hoping for some glint of silver or anything that wasn’t paper and expired beyond its years. He pulled out clump of paper after clump of paper. The crowd was now completely silent, and all he could hear was the trickling of water and the rustling of clothes. It’s almost as if disappointment had its own sound. The crushing feeling that this discovery was a waste of energy weighed on his shoulders with every empty metallic corner he felt. His hands met a leather bindle which he pulled out slowly. More mushy stupid paper. More mud. Still no diamond.

  
“Shit,” he whispered.

“No diamond,” Ivan stated blatantly and monotonously. Even Mathias lost his seemingly eternal enthusiasm. “You know, boss, this same thing happened to Geraldo and his career never recovered,” he informed. It probably wasn’t the best thing to claim at the moment.

As if that weren’t enough, a camera was pointed toward a dismayed Ricardo, who looked just as pissed off as he was disheartened.  
He stood up, glared into the camera briefly, and sighed. “Turn the camera off.”

Inside the ship, people were working to clean up the recovered artifacts, even if there was no diamond. The sunlight poured into the room as a woman sprayed the contents of the leather bindle with a gentle stream of water in order to remove the mud without ruining any part of it. White lights hung from the ceilings and reflected off of the shiny concrete floors. The rumbling of the ship and the light spray can be heard throughout the lab. Ricardo walked around, observing their findings and recapping the events of the day chronologically in his head. Where else could they possibly have looked? It wasn’t taken off board, was it?

  
Ivan, who was on the phone, suddenly called out to his visibly troubled work partner. “Ricardo, the partners would like to know how it's going.” He held the phone out for him.

Ricardo huffed and took the phone, expressing more of his discouraged state than he was intending. “Hey, Dave, Barry, hi.” Great. This will be great. “Look, it wasn't in the safe... But hey, hey, don't worry about it. There's still plenty of places it could be,” he assured, hoping to diffuse the magnitude of the situation.

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if the diamond would be anywhere else, but it seemed he had no choice but to list the possibilities despite this. “Hell yes! Floor debris in the suite, the mother's room, purser's safe on C deck…” he looked to Ivan for more ideas.

“Jimmy Hoffa’s briefcase,” the tall man suggested, leant against the tv displaying the contents that the woman was spraying. The man with the phone nodded.

“Yeah, A dozen other places. Guys, look, you've just got to trust my instincts. I know we're close. We just got to go through a little process of elimination….”

As the men on the line continued to speak, he lost interest in what they had to say as his focus was yanked somewhere else. He paused in the middle of a thought at the sight of a man’s face slowly appearing through the screen. It was a drawing, yes, and perhaps it wouldn’t have anything to do with his situation, but there was a diamond around the man in the drawing’s neck. This had to be a lead. “Hang on a second.”

He passed the phone back to Ivan, who continued the call for him. “Let me see that,” he said to the woman. She moved over slightly to allow Ricardo to view the intricate coal drawing. “We might have something here, guys.”

The piece was done in charcoal, and he was surprised the art was able to withstand so many years of being submersed. The shading was perfect, as was the detail in the eyes and lips. The man was laid on his side on a couch, hair lightly mussed, and eyes bearing softly forward. He had bold eyebrows, which may have been considered bushy on other people, but on him, they were flattering. He was slim and subtly fit with a slightly lanky build. Whoever did it was clearly quite the artist, and indeed must’ve had a close relationship with the man in the image. He lifted it out of the water to get a better look, and as the mud was lifted away, he realised that the man was completely naked. So they must’ve had a really close relationship. A signature at the bottom of the page read “A.J.”  
Aside from all these details, the necklace in the drawing, if Ricardo was right, was exactly like the diamond he was looking for. In fact, it might be it. He quickly stood to his full height.

“Where’s the photograph of the necklace?” he asked, looking around. Ivan pointed to a pole where the image was clipped. “We’ll call you right back,” he notified, before hanging up and standing next to his friend, whose eyes darted between the drawing and the image. From the chain to the link on the stone, the two seemed exactly identical. The date next to the signature read “April 14, 1912.” Ricardo ran a tan thumb over the date to clear up the mud, making sure that his eyes were not deceptive. He felt closer to the diamond than he’d ever felt before.

  
“I’ll be god damned.”

 

On a house on a hill, filled with many antiques, like intricate picture frames and other small ornaments, a small blond boy with deep blue eyes carried two cups of tea over to a small dining table. He was likely a pre-teen, with knobby knees, and droopy shoulders. A warm light filled the home. There was a vase of flowers here and there, along with things collected from what seemed to be many different places from many different travels. A small television sat on the bar counter, which can be heard silently under the man-made noises echoing throughout the rooms. A small ginger dog kept hopping up on the boy’s leg and spinning around in circles.

“It’s okay, I’ll feed you in a minute!” The boy urged, looking down at the hungry animal. “C’mon,” he sighed, walking over to fill its bowl with kibble.

In a small mud room-sort area, an elderly man in a plum sweater with sleeves rolled up to his elbows sat leant over a pottery wheel. His apron was draped over him, covered in dry clay. His nimble and aged hands worked gently to shape the large bowl he worked on, curving the top slightly outward. His hands were covered in the same sienna colour as it dripped slowly down the front of his hand. His breath was settled in a relaxed rhythm, and his focus was placed upon the clay. That is, before it was pulled by the television. What caught his attention was a voice with a light hispanic accent discussing “secrets” and the “Titanic.” Frankly, that was all it took for the man to slowly rise and hobble over to the screen and see what it was all about. He hadn’t heard that ship’s name in… Years.

“We're out here using robot technology to go further into the wreck than anybody's ever done before.”

  
On the screen, a broad man with tan skin and dark hair pulled up on his head was being interviewed by a female reporter on the deck of a white ship.  
“Your expedition is at the center of a storm of controversy over salvage rights and even ethics. Many are calling you a grave robber.”

  
“Well, nobody called the recovery of artifacts of King Tut's tomb "grave robbing."

  
The boy, with a comparatively large oven mitt on his hands, pulled a steel kettle off of the stove, and began to make his way over to the table. He was stopped in his tracks when he saw the old man staring agape at the telly. “What is it?” he asked, a little concerned.

The old man did not look away. “Turn that up, poppet,”  
He requested to his little helper politely. The boy turned the knob on the telly, which increased the volume of the man’s voice for both of them.

“I have museum-trained experts out here making sure that these relics are preserved and catalogued properly. Take a look at this drawing that we found just today: A piece of paper that's been underwater for 84 years.”

The camera panned over to the drawing. The corners were stained by the mud and rust from sitting in the safe for so long, but nothing touched the coal work in the centre of the page. The piece was well aged, and even the boy watched on with intrigue. “And my team were able to preserve it intact.”

  
The elder’s emerald eyes gleamed in fascination at the familiar artwork, thousands of thoughts flying through his head at one speed. It seemed funny to him that fate hadn’t allowed him to truly revisit the voyage until 84 years after.  
“Should this have remained unseen at the bottom of the ocean for eternity?”

  
Of all the times he heard the name within those decades, this was the most personal discovery of all for him. Amongst the rapidly flying thoughts and emotions, there was only one thing he could muster to say that would sum up his feelings most accurately.

  
“I’ll be god damned.”

 

Back in the middle of the Atlantic, Ricardo stood on the deck of the same ship, looking on into the evening horizon, and watching as a massive submersible was beginning to launch back into the watery abyss. The headset he had on blocked out most of the loudest noises, so he could be on standby and watch without the sound getting to him. This time he was beyond motivated to find that diamond, and he assured himself that he would not get a full rest without it. In the middle of the mechanical whirring, the rumbling of the ship, and the loud voice on the overhead, the man heard a familiar Russian accent calling out his name. What could it possibly be, now? He thought. I don’t need any more distractions.

  
“Ric! There’s a satellite call for you!”

  
Ricardo looked up at the tall man, who seemed to have run all the way. He was breathing heavily with a determined look on his face, so this call absolutely had to be important. “Ivan, we’re launching. You see these submersibles going in the water?” the Cuban asked half-incredulously. What could possibly be more important than finding that damn diamond?

  
Ivan placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and pointed at him as if to say I didn’t run this far for you to just say no.

“Trust me, you want to take this call,” he said, with guarantee heavily implied.

Ricardo searched for any sign of falter in his comrade’s expression, because if there was even the slightest hint of it, he was staying to launch. Upon finding no gap in Ivan’s reasoning, he sighed and followed in compliance. “This better be good.”

  
The tall Russian smiled, rushed over to the call machine, and held the phone out. “You got to speak up, he’s kind of old,” he advised, yelling over the increasing sounds of the busy crew.

“Great," the dark-haired man huffed, pulling the headset off, taking the phone, and bringing it up to his ear. “This is Ricardo Cruz. How can I help you, Mr…” he began, looking to Ivan for a name. “Jones, Arthur Jones.” Ricardo nodded, and returned to the call. “Mr Jones?”

  
“I was wondering if you had found the heart of the ocean yet, Mr. Cruz.”

He looked over in a mix of surprise and bemusement to Ivan, who had a small grin planted on his face. “I told ya you wanted to take that call.” Ricardo huffed out a short laugh and shook his head. Maybe he was right.

  
“Alright, you have my attention, Arthur. Could you tell us who the man in the picture is?” The more answers he could find, the closer he could get. It seemed he might get to cancel the launch after all.

  
“Oh, yes,” the voice over the line responded. “The man in the picture is me.”


	2. Revisit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so sorry it took so long for me to update. I know a few of you got excited for the next chapter, and I apologise immensely for the wait. I had finals all week, and I was hoping to be able to put something up, but the time never came. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'll certainly get quicker with updated from here, especially considering we've just gotten the the good part.

Over the Atlantic ocean, approaching a certain white ship, came a helicopter carrying history itself. 

Arthur Jones, after the night he called, was requested to stay on the research ship by Ricardo and his crew (but mostly Ricardo). The mere possibility that the elder had information on the most precious diamond known in the world filled the treasure hunter with excitement and thrill. He looked out to the endless blue horizon to see the helicopter slowly become visible, and took it as a cue to visit the landing deck. He wanted to ensure that whoever he invited was going to feel welcomed. He was convinced he could trust this man, and he knew that he could find answers. However, Mathias didn’t seem to feel the same about the situation at all. The two stood on deck as gear was being checked and the submersibles were going over weekly maintenance. Before he went to the top of the ship, Ricardo walked over to check on Dunkin. On his way, he found a particularly unamused head of crazy blond hair. 

 

“He’s a goddamn liar!” Mathias shouted over the clanking and thrumming of mechanics at work.

 

The wind blew around as the hardly warming sun beat down and reflected over his sunglasses. The dark-skinned man rolled his eyes and walked past his new-found complainant. 

 

“Some nut case seeking money or publicity. God only knows why, like that Russian babe, Anesthesia!”

 

Ricardo, from there, decided his friend was just running his mouth like he usually did, and that this was only a temporary thing. Of course, he had every right to be cautious, as it wasn’t every day they invited a 100 or so year old man claiming to be subject to an art piece on board. Ultimately, they were all researchers, and professional ones at that. They only believed in realism. He supposed, to Mathias, him wanting to meet up with a so-called first-class survivor of a shipwreck was like a man amongst a group of atheists suddenly looking to some spirit. But, as he said the night before, a lead is a lead. And in this situation, he’d take any chance he’d find. At the edge of the deck came Ivan, who was on the lookout for the helicopter. He had a walkie talkie in hand, and a slight spring in his step as he approached his two crewmates.

 

“They're inbound!” He shouted, gesturing toward the suddenly closer aircraft. The rotating of copter blades now joined the already loud jungle of noises, as the three began to make their way toward the stairs. 

 

“Arthur DeWitt Kirkland died on the Titanic when he was 23, right?” the blond continued, apparently still convinced this wasn’t a brilliant idea. 

 

“That’s right,” Ricardo yelled back, trying his best to be heard. 

 

“If he had lived, he’d be over 100 by now!”

 

“107 next month.”

 

Mathias rolled his eyes and huffed. “Okay, so he’s a very OLD goddamn liar!”

 

They began climbing the stairs. As Ricardo looked back up, he could see that the helicopter was almost ready to land, so he decided to pick up his pace. Ivan, as he followed the two, found the small dispute amusing. It wasn’t even much of an argument. It was more like a teacher listening to a student present a persuasive essay before the class.

 

“Look, I've already done the background on this guy, all the way back to the '20s.” They reached the next deck. “He was working as an actor. An actor! There's your first clue, Sherlock! His name was changed to Arthur Jones by then. Then he moves to Cedar Rapids to adopt a couple of kids. Never married. Now, he lives somewhere else, and from what I hear, Cedar Rapids is dead!”

 

The three make it to the final set of stairs. Ricardo glanced behind him at Mathias and spoke. “And everybody who knows about the diamond is supposed to be dead or on this boat,” he said, pointing to the floor of the deck. “but he knows!”

 

As the three pulled themselves up onto the landing deck, almost on cue, the helicopter they sent was landing right on top like a great sleigh upon a roof. The massive blades slowed to a stop, calming the additional whip of air it created on board. It was large and blue, with a few windows on each side excluding the pilot’s window. Its giant tail protruded from the edge of the ship, and stuck out like a thumbtack on a corkboard. The Cuban made his way over to the door of the aircraft, and helped unload what were trunks upon trunks of items, all different sizes. There may have been about four or five of them, all varying in shape and shade of brown. He expected the man to be a lot less carefree with his packing, considering he was a first-class passenger, but 84 years is plenty of time to change, and stereotyping a person isn’t exactly something he’d call a good habit.

 

“Doesn’t exactly travel light, does he?” He heard Mathias say from where he stood. Seeing as the obviously rhetorical question wasn’t directed toward him, Ricardo switched his focus back to helping his new passenger.

 

The doors to the helicopter flew open in one movement, as two men in bright orange jumpsuits and a yellow hard hat rushed to aid a man in a wheelchair out. They placed their arms underneath it, minding the wheels and being as gentle as possible. On the wheelchair was Arthur Jones. His white hair was disheveled, and his deep green eyes wandered about the deck of the ship before darting between the focussed faces of the men around him. He wore a great green coat to keep warm, simple black trousers, and a pale green sweater vest. The dress shirt he wore underneath was buttoned up to the collar. On his lap was a small ginger dog, which he held closely yet gently to him as if it would leap free. Ricardo gave a warming smile to the old man. 

 

“Mr. Jones! I’m Ricardo Cruz!” He introduced, loudly enough to be heard over the noise. “Welcome to the Keldysh!”

 

Arthur gave him a polite nod as his wheelchair was lowered to the deck. Behind him, a blond boy in a cricket jersey with a blue jacket over it hopped out, a backpack slung over his shoulder covered in pins and airplane patches. 

 

“Little Mr. Peter!”

 

The boy looked up at the man calling his name, and smiled when he realised that it was the guy from the news. “Hi!” He replied with a smile. 

 

Ricardo held out a hand, which the boy shook briefly. “Welcome to the Keldysh!”

 

The boy nodded and quickly ran over to push his grandfather’s wheelchair instinctively, assuring the men in orange jumpsuits that he can do it himself. The man smiled softly at the sight, wondering what his family was doing right now. Funny thing, he never got the chance to talk to them since the search for the diamond began. And since he felt so distracted by the whole mission, his mind hadn’t crossed his family in some time. Just as a big pang of guilt hit him, a man still on board the helicopter tapped his shoulder, holding out a fishbowl with four little orange goldfish swimming about inside. He was grateful for the distraction, but at the same time, felt the sudden realisation dawn on him that this old man might actually be a bit crazy. After taking the bowl with slow movements, he gazed at the fish in bewilderment, then glanced back at the now slightly further wheelchair. No, he thought, I am not letting Mathias think he was right.

Whatever was going on, whatever information this man had in mind, it’d better be worth it. 

 

Arthur placed yet another framed photograph on the freshly crowded nightstand next to his temporary bed, where he sat on the edge of the mattress. The rooms were considerably cosy, the thought in mind that this was an explorer’s ship, not a cruise. The floors were a nice grey plush carpet, and matched the curtains on the windows surprisingly well, which sported a similar shade. The walls had been painted a sort of eggshell white, and the furniture was all oak with a medium tint finish. Nothing was awfully new, but none of it was far too ancient. If there was a scale range for the decor on the ship, it would balance on a good “medium.” 

The soft white light of the windows filtered into the room, illuminating it with a gentle brightness, and bringing more comfort to the elder as he took a deep breath. Out of the blue, a slight knocking on the doorframe echoed off the walls, prompting Peter to skip on into his grandfather’s room, and sit leant against one of the massive trunks to pull some clothes out of his heavily decorated backpack. “Yes?” Arthur responded to the knocking. He looked up to see Ricardo smiling politely, with Mathias behind him waving like an idiot. 

 

“Are your staterooms alright?”The two took a couple steps into the room. 

 

Arthur nodded. “Oh, yes, very nice,” he replied with a smile of his own. 

 

“Oh, have you met my grandson Peter?” he began again, trying to keep away from awkward silences.

“He takes care of me.” 

 

The boy of subject looked up at the explorers with his best grin.. He was obviously a well-raised kid, always kempt and up to date with etiquette. “We met just a few minutes ago, remember, gramps? Up on deck?” Arthur tapped his brow and shrugged, an “oh, of course, how silly of me” heavily implied.

 

Ricardo looked behind him at his friend, who was in the middle of rolling his eyes. He swelled with a new surge of motivation. He felt another heavy urge to prove this guy wrong, and before turning back to their guests, he shot Mathias a look that said “you wanna bet?” 

 

Arthur pulled one more picture out of his own trunk and placed it in front of the others. It could almost be called a gallery at that rate, the nightstand. Once again attempting to break the silence, he spoke. “There, that's nice. Have to have my pictures when I travel,” he stated, as if his photographic collection was a simple photo album rather than a whole brigade of frames. 

 

“Can I get you anything?” Ricardo suddenly asked, knowing exactly where his question would lead with certainty. “ls there anything you'd like?”

 

The old man looked at him, a gleam of interest in his eyes at the remembrance of the reason he came to the ship in the first place. The whole reason that helicopter flew him thousands of metres across the Atlantic. “Yes. I would like to see my drawing.”

 

Back in the lab, there was that same white light, and that same solid concrete floor. The whole room smelt of metal and dust, with the slightest notes of chemicals. There were tables and counters covered in salvaged antiquities that suffered from slight damage after the wreck, each sporting a labeled tag with a string tied to it. Skylights poured in the sunshine from two different directions, and seemed to amplify the nostalgic tone of the whole area. The deck was mostly empty, excluding Ivan, Ricardo, Mathias, and their two new passengers. Arthur was rolled in on his wheelchair, now leant over his familiar charcoal drawing which was submerged in water to prevent further decomposition. It looked better than he was expecting. Of course, he’d seen it on the television about a day back, but seeing it with his real eyes brought back memories. Now there wasn’t a shield of pixels and a massive distance. After looking at the younger rendition of his face for some time, he closed his eyes and returned to the night the piece was conceived. The heavy beat of his pulse. The deep breaths he took to compose himself. He could almost smell the light perfume of the ocean liner’s interior. Feel the soft cushions under his body. See those dazzlingly blue eyes dart from him to the paper, golden hair sneaking in front of his glasses. Hear the scratching of charcoal mixed in with the very faint rumbling of an engine.

 

“Louis XVI wore a fabulous stone that was called the Blue Diamond of the Crown which disappeared in 1792.” 

 

The sound of Ricardo’s voice pulled Arthur from his long overdue recollection. The images flying through his memory slipped away as his eyelids fluttered open, imagination being replaced by reality as the sight of the drawing returned.

 

“about the same time old Louis lost everything from the neck up.” He watched as the dark- haired explorer walked around to pull a photograph of the diamond amulet out of a clip.

 

It was just as he knew it looked, large and deep blue with a silver plating and chain. “The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped, too, recut into a heart-like shape that became known as "the Heart of the Ocean." Of course, Arthur knew the theory all too well, recalling it as if it had been told to him a hundred times. “Today it would be worth more than the Hope Diamond.” 

 

The old brit shrugged. Obviously the object could pay for anyone’s entire life careers, but really, it was morally worth far less. 

 

“It was a dreadful heavy thing,” he stated with slight contempt. “I only wore it this once,” he said, gesturing to the art piece. 

 

Beside him, Peter hovered over it in fascination. The boat was cool to him, sure. So was flying in a helicopter and seeing all the submersibles. But that drawing was just as awesome, considering how old it was. “You actually think this is you, gramps?” he questioned genuinely, furrowing his brow in curiosity. 

 

His grandfather nodded in validation. “It is me, poppet. Wasn’t I a dish?” he joked with a soft chuckle. Ricardo mirrored the action, glancing at the drawing.

 

“I tracked it down through insurance records-- An old claim that was settled under terms of absolute secrecy.” He took a seat on the chair in front of Arthur.  “Can you tell me who the claimant was, Arthur?”

 

The elder cringed a little at the memory of such an abhorrent person brought up. He knew exactly who would be the claimant. 

 

“I should imagine someone named Hockley,” he responded, matter-of-factly.

 

“Nathan Hockley, that's right. Pittsburgh steel tycoon. Claim was for a diamond necklace his daughter Calypso bought her fiance --you.” 

 

Arthur nodded, visibly recoiling at the recollection of Cal. Her possessive ways still rang clearly in his mind. “a week before she sailed on Titanic, It was filed right after the sinking, so the diamond had to have gone down with the ship. You see the date?” 

 

Peter tilted his head to better see the scribblings at the bottom of the paper, and read it through its slightly warped appearance due to the rippling water above it. “April 14, 1912.” 

 

“Which means if your grandfather is who he says he is,” Mathias began, as he stood behind Peter, “he was wearing the diamond the day the titanic sank.” 

 

“And that makes you my new best friend,” Ricardo said with a glint in his eye, and a smile on his face. Arthur looked at him with a confused expression, opening his mouth to speak, but quickly changing his mind. Of a sudden, the man before him walked over to another table covered in more antiquities and gestured for the group to follow suit. They did, Arthur soon finding himself in front of the table, which  covered in a black cloth. He felt his puzzlement slowly dissipate as he recognised the details on the objects. The gleaming variety of metals and other ornate treasures was certainly a sight to behold- and he thought he’d never see any of these again. 

 

“These are some of the things we recovered from your stateroom.”

 

“These are mine,” He gasped. He smiled as he picked up a silver mirror. It was simple, with a rounded design, a few pearl-like decorations were welded into it at the handle. “How extraordinary!” He basked for a while in nostalgia. The familiar heaviness of it struck him with such joy, and the recognisable way the handle felt in his grip sent him on a journey down memory lane. “And it looks the same as it did   
the last time I saw it.”

 

As he turned it from muscle memory-- just like he did long ago, the gleam of his reflection in the cracked glass, the smile was wiped from his face. He blinked in subtle rejection as the nostalgia was swept away. He didn’t see a full head of blond hair or a youthful and smooth complexion. Neither was there velvety drapery or ornate wallpaper. Instead, looking back at him with a split image was an old man on a concrete ship. 

 

“The reflection has changed a bit.” Deciding he was done with it, he placed the handheld mirror back onto the table. From the corner of his eye, was another of his favourite things. He gasped again quietly, a small “oh,” escaping him. He reached out and gently placed in the palm of his hand two well-secured cufflinks. They were small jade butterflies. One of them was missing its other half, and another was chipped. He gently ran a finger over them, and remembered those days on deck that he fiddled with them as he looked on into the sea. Or whilst he walked with his mother. He felt himself daze off and allowed his mind to wander back to the sea breeze. The crisp scent of morning air. 

 

“Are you ready to go back to Titanic?” Ricardo asked, once again pulling him from his recollection of the whole experience. He asked himself the same question. He knew that he was afraid. Afraid to return and relive the pain and how glorious it was all at once. Yet he knew he couldn’t run from it forever. Slowly, he turned his head slightly and gave a very small nod. 

  
  


Arthur squinted at a quickly animated 3D image of the Titanic as it shone in a dark room on a monitor bigger than what seemed like 50 other ones. Around the group were different sets of footage from the wreck- all ranging from sandy floors to upper decks. The animation slowed slightly as the ship drew close to a white blob that was supposedly an iceberg. 

 

“Okay, here we go,” Mathias began, standing before the screen. His demeanor, as usual, was excitable as his hands moved like a politician’s to match the words he spoke. “She hits the burg on the starboard side, right?” Just so, the animation creates a long dent in the side of the ship’s hull. 

“She kind of bumps along, punching holes like morse code- dit dit dit!” He expressed, voice dropping into falsetto as he imitated the beeping. “Just along the side, below the waterline.”

 

The ship now opens up to reveal the workings of the insides, like a diagram. It displayed the separate watertight compartments and other rooms with crates and furnishings and all as the water, depicted as a bright blue, filled each area and lifted the objects about. 

 

“Then, the forward compartments start to flood. Now, as the water level rises, it spills over the watertight bulkheads, which unfortunately, don’t go any higher than E deck.” The film pans out to display the whole ship as the light blue starts to fill more and more of its frontside.

 

“So now as the bow goes down, the stern rises up slow at first, then faster and faster.” The CGI ship begins to do as it was expected to, and begins to tip forward and slightly to the side, causing a pillar to topple over. “ Until finally, she's got her whole ass is sticking up in the air! and that's a big ass. We're talking 20, 30 thousand tonnes!” A small snort could be heard from Ivan at his friend’s silliness. 

 

“Okay, and the hull’s not designed to deal with that pressure.” Arthur could see the man’s excitement build as his favourite part drew even closer. “So what happens?” He attempts a cracking sound effect with as much drama and expertise as he could at about the same time the animation splits. “She splits, right down to the keel!” 

 

In a smooth movement, the broken bow begins to pull underwater, tugging the rest of her with it. “And the stern falls back level. Then as the bow sinks, it pulls the stern vertical and finally detaches.” The bow is left alone for a while as it floats, sticking up like a sore thumb. 

 

“Now, the stern section just kind of bobs there like a cork for a couple of minutes, floods and finally goes under about 2:20 a.m. two hours and 40 minutes after the collision.” Just as he said, the rest of the Titanic begins to slip under the surface of the water. 

 

“The bow section planes away landing about a half a mile away going 20, 30 knots when it hits the ocean floor,” he began, followed by more grade-A Hollywood style, Michael-Bay-would-be-proud explosion sound effects. As if he’s expecting some kind of applause, he looks up to the group with his original toothy grin. “Pretty cool, huh?”

 

Arthur, with his eyes still locked on the screen, felt his brow twitch. “Thank you for that fine forensic analysis, Mr. Køhler…”  _ If he could call that an analysis.  _ “Of course, the experience of it was… Somewhat different.” 

 

A short silence filled the monitor room, and he felt eyes all around fall onto him. The aura was curious and yet also pitiful, and everyone seemed to fight to decide which one they felt like being today. Some may consider it rude to ask an old man about something so terrifying, and yet, maybe he’d consider telling the tale. Ricardo was ready to take that chance. 

“Will you share it with us?” He asked, somewhat insecure about the outcome of his question. 

 

He and Arthur looked at each other for a solid 4 seconds. Thoughts of worry raced through their heads and through the air- almost felt by the rest of the crew. There was some kind of undeniable tension from sealed memories and it was almost like there was this chest of things someone knew were secret and profound, yet painful and undesirable. And there was a hesitant yet determined hand that was holding the key before it, trembling and questioning its morals. In one shaky movement, the old man stood to his feet with the help of his cane. His eyes darted around the room at all of the watery pictures displayed on every glowing screen. He remembered it all. The bannisters, when they were new of course, and the windows. He remembered when they were lit up and brand new. He remembered the smell of the new carpets and soft perfume. The every stitch and fibre of fabric in the freshly seamed curtains. The feel of the clean china as he ran his fingertips on the edge of the plates. How unnoticably yet undeniably untouched the silverware was. 

 

He made his way over to what looked like the old doors to the saloon. The swirled design remained intact, yet there was no one to open them for his entry. There was no soft piano music, and no gold embellishments. No scent of colognes and fresh pastries. A sudden wave of painful nostalgia hit him like a brick as his eyes went blurry on the screen, welling up with tears. He gasped and covered his face with every intent of wiping away the memories. Peter instinctively rushed over to his grandfather in complete concern, taking the wheelchair with him. He gently ran a hand up and down the elder’s arm. 

 

“I’m taking him to rest,” he said to the others.

 

“No…”

 

“C’mon, gramps…”

 

“No!”

 

Arthur wiped his eyes and took a shaky breath as his grandson nodded politely. After another glance at the monitor, Peter gently turned him around, helping him take a seat on the wheelchair behind him. There was a soft beeping noise as Ricardo turned a recording device on, and set it down on the table beside him. From there, Peter walked over to stand with the rest of the group, thus giving his grandfather the stage. 

 

“Tell us, Arthur,” Ricardo said, a gentle air poised in his tone. 

 

Arthur nodded and closed his eyes. “It’s been 84 years,” he began, taking another deep breath. 

 

“Okay, just try to remember anything. Anything at all.” 

 

“Do you want to hear this or not, Mr. Cruz?” 

 

Small grins reached the faces of the elder’s audience as they prepared for the story to come. The explorer nodded slowly. 

 

“It’s been 84 years… and I can still smell the fresh paint. The china had never been used. The sheets had never been slept in. Titanic was called The Ship of Dreams. And it was, it really was.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? The author is making Cal a girl? 
> 
> Yes, I am. You'll see my intent soon enough, and it's a very important one, as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry It took so long again. I had a lot of work to do. Don't worry, I squeezed plenty of time in for this... Well, as much as I could muster.

April 10, 1912-

 

The dock was absolutely bustling with action. Everywhere was either a person getting ready to board, or someone saying their goodbyes. Children laughed and shouted into the crisp air, and men kissed their loved ones before parting. All around were heads of bowler and paperboy hats, or curly locks weaved with ribbons rushing about to get on board. Ushers shouted at the crowd of people, directing them any which way and attempting to prevent congestion. The great salty sea air gave way to a refreshing scent, which to some was familiar, and to others unheard of. There was hardly even a light whisper of wind, which paved a perfect roadway for the sunlight to create a gentle warmth. The cornflower sky was clear and bright with no clouds in sight- something to be taken as some good omen as the RMS Titanic stood in the water, massive and untouched by sea until that day. Posters, flyers, and newspaper articles created a celebrity out of the event before it’d even occurred, and now it felt like a dream to be experiencing such a long-awaited moment. Even that day, the bold letters in black against white screamed about the ship’s departure as they were passed around and pinned to brick walls or wooden poles. Luggage trolleys rolled their way about the crowd just as cars began to pull up to the great ocean liner, releasing their passengers and transferring them to her care. 

 

Through the carnage of people and leather and wool came a shiny, brass-lined white car, thin wheels slowing to a stop as it honked its way through to avoid any dreadful accidents. It was almost like a royal carriage- of course, without the horses. It carried itself lightly like it was on some sort of cloud, and amongst the shroud of common folk, it stood in stark contrast as a sleek, clearly expensive commodity. It would make any person who looked upon it wish that it was their own. 

The driver soon climbs out from behind the steering wheel, and makes his way to the door of his passengers, politely opening it up for them to step out. 

 

Just as the door gently swung open, a well-groomed young man steps out with as much decorum and composition as one would expect. He leans on his umbrella and gazes up at the ship with gleaming emerald eyes from beneath the brim of his deep violet boater hat. To match, he wore an ivory pinstripe suit, with the same purple colour in velvet as his lapel. His tie was embellished with a silver broach, likely some sort of family crest. His mother, in a deep green dress embellished with small glass beads is helped out on the other side, sporting a rather simple matching hat with two feathers in it atop her cleanly styled hair. She looked younger than she really was, sharing her son’s jewel green eyes. The only obviously different trait was her hair, which was a fiery red, and swirled with merely a few gray streaks. And finally, after the other two, in a separate car from them, came a brunet woman around the same age as the man. Her hair was put up in a tight twist, a large brown hat with a few white flowers adorning it rested upon her head. Her dress was a beige colour, lined in lace and gold satin. Thrill glimmered in her hazel eyes as she beamed up at the Titanic in awe. 

 

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” the blond man stated, turning to his fiance, Calypso Hockley with a neutral expression. “It doesn’t look any bigger than the Mauretania.”

 

The brunet shook her head and smiled up at him as if what he said was silly or childish. Obviously, to her, this ship being as incredible as they say was a no-brainer. 

 

“You can be blase about some things, Arthur, but not about Titanic!” she insisted confidently. “It's over 100 feet longer than Mauretania! And far more luxurious.” Seeing as Arthur was busy taking in the sights, she turned to his mother, who held a fur coat in her arms and locked eyes on the ship. 

“Your son is far too difficult to impress, Ruth,” she half-joked, earning a light chuckle from the older woman. 

 

“So this is the ship they say is unsinkable,” Ruth said with a small smirk sneaking onto her lips. 

 

“It is unsinkable!” Calypso urged, confident in her words, and at the same time ignoring the usher calling for her. “God himself could not sink this ship,” she shouted after the two, her tone growing in irritation as she spoke on. “What!?” she finally responded, turning to the usher in uniform. 

 

“Ma’am, you have to check your baggage through the main terminal,” he informed, a tone of eloquence in his voice. Cal was impressed with his patience, considering there were so many passengers to tend to. The man seemed to keep his composure. However, she could still hear that he was filled to the brim with stress. “It’s around that way, ma'am,” he said, directing her toward a certain unknown pathway blocked by other people in waiting. She would never consider herself lazy or stuck-up. Rather, she considered herself as a simple woman who knows her place in the social ranks, and knew that she was a proper schmoozer when it comes to anyone like this usher. Along with this, she was positive she was not willing to take so much luggage through the seemingly ugly journey to the terminal. So, in full experience with this sort of thing, she reached into her small beaded pouch for a form of payment, and handed the man perhaps 8 pound coins. She didn’t care to count. 

 

“I put my faith in you, good sir,” she performed, while placing a charming smile on her face. The man lit up in what seemed to be a humbling manner, clearly grateful. So was she that she didn’t have to deal with checking in the bags. But she wasn’t prepared for further arse-kissing. Which is what she got instead. 

 

“Yes, ma’am, my pleasure, ma’am.  If I can do anything at all!”

 

Cal simply walked away, pulling her fob watch out of the pouch to ensure they would arrive on board on time. “We’d better hurry,” she called to Arthur and his mother, who were pulling a few suitcases from their car. The pair nodded, and followed after her in a single-file assembly, evading the lower class. The three stuck out like sore thumbs. 

 

“My coat?” Arthur wondered, calling to a maid who followed behind. He was always like this on trips, making sure he had everything. Paranoid of forgetting. “I have it, sir.” 

 

Another line was forming at the lower entrance of the ship, men women and children all of the third class creating it. More men in usher uniform stood to comb through beards and study molars as one of them called and directed more passengers to the “health inspection” that was required of them. Meanwhile, the first, and even second class were allowed to bypass and were sent directly to the ship, and their rooms. 

 

As Arthur and his two companions climbed the ramp into the new cruise, he observed the clear distinction of privilege between his people and the others, eyes darting between his line and theirs. Both moved at extraordinarily different speeds. He took note of the class gap separating them. How those who were to accompany him on the first-class deck were lackluster in number in comparison to the ones who were to stay in the lower decks. He thought to himself about the flow of money. The jobs. While others in his class were attending this voyage for the fun of it, and didn’t think twice about the crumbling economy, he had to sit there and go mad with the reality of it all. Pretend he was fine with his circumstances. Act as if he was the perfect son and not deeply involved in politics. To go along with all of this, he was crippled by the pain of leaving England. His home was here, and stepping onto that ship with considerably different political views, a love for his country, and an uncertain future with an arranged marriage was enough to send his mind on a destructive roller coaster. Yet he carried himself with a neutral mask and dammed back every tear he felt behind his eyelids. 

  
  


Meanwhile, in a quaint pub 6 minutes away from the dock, men of every size and age created their own sort of stench. Sweat and alcohol and cigarette smoke filled the groggy air. A few spatterings of laughter broke the eerie quiet that settled in, as the loud horns of the ship could be heard underneath. The slight clanking of glasses would sprinkle the atmosphere with more of that familiar pub noise. It was mostly empty, mainly because all the regulars were busy on the docks waiting to board the Titanic like everyone else was. But for those who could hardly afford a new pair of suspenders, the shops and pubs were always open to welcome them. And those were the guests who came. For some, that meant more gambling. 

 

And it meant exactly that for four men around a table near the window, who glanced at each other above their fanned cards in hand. 

 

The tension was evenly dealt out between them. Though the game was traditionally played against each person, they seemed to be paired off, team against team. Clearly the stakes were high as they were forced to bet more and more of what they had on them. That’s just how the game always goes. You lose everything, or you win everything. And for all four of them, despite the 50/50 risk of losing everything, they knew that with their living conditions, that risk could change everything. And they were more than willing to take it. At least Alfred was. 

 

Alfred F. Jones furrowed his brow in focus as he glared over his dealing of cards, silently pulling another from the deck. His golden blond hair gleamed in the minimal light as he tossed his head to remove it from his eyes. His ears were tuned in to the nervous and ragged breathing of the Swede regular across from him and the ticking of the fob watch that man and his partner bet. Here and there, he’d bite down on the cigarette in his teeth out of sheer nerve. He didn’t  know if this would be the last smoke he’d ever get to afford, and just for the hell of it, he kept another one tucked behind his ear. 

The man’s brilliant sky blue eyes peered over his glasses, eyeballing the third-class tickets for the voyage of the Titanic. They were weighed beneath the tarnished fob watch, ticking almost in torment. He was praying for luck to be on his side. Begging for some kind of break. He felt his ear twitch a little at the sudden raise in voice of the angry man across him. The Swede barked some arrangement of angry words at his companion, sea-green eyes piercing into the other’s violet ones. He was angry, alright. The rectangular frames he had on stayed balanced on the lift of his nose, and he uncharacteristically hadn’t pushed them up. Alfred noted this, and took a deep drag of his cigarette. The smaller, violet-eyed one cringed every time the other spoke to him. Alfred figured it had something to do with the tickets, but they spoke to each other in some different languages he couldn’t pick up. 

 

A brick brown haired man with constantly narrowed olive eyes sat beside him, half of the time hiding a grimace from underneath a paperboy hat. He’d shake his head once in awhile, and every time he got new cards or switched out. It was obviously not his game. He finally leant forward, stage-whispering to his arrogant American friend.

 

“Al, you are pazzo,” he hissed, his brow twitching in a blend of irritation and anxiety. “You bet everything we have.”

 

Alfred just took a short drag of the smoke and responded with, more than anything, a self-assuring firmness to his tone. “When you’ve got nothin’, you’ve got nothin’ to lose.”

 

“Tino?” he called to the nervous man, who flinched slightly at the sound of his name. In accordance to game rules, the two traded a card at a pace that was almost too quick to measure. They would both blame it later on nerves. Tino looked almost frightened, and as they pulled another card in the ear-ringing silence, Alfred could’ve sworn his glasses nearly fogged up. He tried is utmost to keep a gargantuan smile from forming on his subtly sun-kissed face as he took a good look at his cards. Now if he was lucky… 

 

The blonde pulled the cigarette from his mouth and squished its butt into the ashtray beside him, looking around at the men. 

 

“Alright, moment of truth,” he began, sounding like some sort of cheesy sports novel. “Somebody’s life’s about to change.” 

 

“Lovino?” he enquired, looking to the grumpy brunet beside him. In return, the man kept his steely-eyed look on Alfred and slapped his cards down, slumping in his seat as he did so. The blond nodded, and kept a cool composure which got Lovino crossing his arms. He thought that he couldn’t be serious. He can’t be so fucking calm now. 

 

“Niente,” Alfred commented. 

 

“Niente.”

 

“Berwald?” 

 

He looked to the man with the cold expression, who just now seemed to be crumbling under the stress. His seafoam eyes lost their intimidating luster. In near-defeat, he set his cards down in front of him with the twitch of an eyelid. The American leant forward for a brief moment, and upon seeing the assortment, he felt himself grow in surprise. Maybe God was watching over him, after all. 

 

“Nothing,” he stated, sitting back down. “Tino?” 

 

Picking up his cue, Tino hesitantly, and in one gentle movement, placed his cards down in front of him, nothing but desperation carving his features. Alfred sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. 

 

“Uh oh, two pair…. Sorry, Lovino,” he half-mumbled, his voice faltering. 

 

The brunet’s face grew pink when what was the final straw flew out of sight. His eyebrows knit together in only the way his did, and he lunged forward to slam a fist onto the table. 

 

“Che  _ sorry,  _ ma vaffanculo! You bet all our money!” He shouted, throwing his hands in the air wherever he thought was appropriate. 

 

“I’m sorry!” Alfred pressed on, trying to calm his friend down. “You’re not going to see your mom again for a long time.”

 

Lovino stared at the blond with confusion and residual frustration as if to say ‘what the hell are you talking about!?’ He watched in bemusement as the other’s face twisted into a triumphant grin.

 

“‘Cause we’re going to America!!” He exclaimed, slamming his cards onto the table. “Full house, boys!!”

He was suddenly that same wild man he usually was, and Lovino’s anger melted into relief and overwhelming glee as he stood up in celebration. The crazy bastard actually won. He grabbed the tickets in his hands and did a quick solo waltz around the room, screaming at the ceiling and thanking God. This was it. The day everything changed. The day both of them could have freedom and money and jobs. No more scouring the town, no more drawing for coin. That ship was going to take them to eternal glory. 

 

As Alfred reached for all the money at the centre of the table, his ears rung with pride and thrill. He was going home. He was going home, and he was going to draw the Statue of Liberty, and breathe American air. He was going to eat all the goddamn food in the whole city of New York, and no one can stop hi--

 

He froze and his head shot up at the sight of a very angry Swede, who glared down at him with a fist above his head and another grabbing Alfred’s shirt. He said something. Though Alfred had no idea what it meant, he knew they had to be some nasty words. Embracing for impact was all he could do without causing a fight, so he simply shut one eye and recoiled. A few eventless seconds go by, and In a sudden flash of movement, he was pushed over, and a now covered in alcohol Tino was on the floor in surprise. 

 

He knew he probably shouldn’t be, but Alfred was laughing like there was no tomorrow, and turning to Lovino, he found he was doing the same. “Figlio diputtana!” The brunet shouted, handing his American friend the tickets, who kissed them like they were some holy relic. 

 

“I’m goin’ home!” He shouted, blue eyes glistening with hope and a new restored faith in luck. The friends hugged like two crazy drunks and jumped around as if they were teenage girls. They could hear the chatter of the confused customers of the pub, some cheering, others conspiring. 

 

“I’m goin’ home!!” He announced once more. 

 

“I’ll go to America!!”

 

“No, mate,” a voice called from behind the bar. The bartender stood there, polishing a glass, his uniform sleeves rolled up and grey mustache cleanly styled. The whole area seemed to grow silent, and the smiles disappeared almost instantly. The realisation hadn’t dawned on Alfred until then. The sounding of the ship’s horns, the amount of distance they were from it… Shit.

 

“Titanic goes to America in 5 minutes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for this being so short. I promise next chapter will be much longer. Besides, We finally get to make our love team meet!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ma vaffanculo-- Fuck you
> 
> Figlio diputtana-- Son of a bitch


	4. Voyage

Alfred and Lovino instantly turned to each other, freezing in panic, eyes wide. The bespectacled blond felt his excitement blend with that same anxiety from before and couldn’t help a slurred “shit” from escaping his mouth. 

 

From his friend’s expression, he could tell they were both thinking the same thing. They began to rush, grabbing their things, Alfred with the rucksack he brought quickly raking all the money he’d earnt from the lucky poker game with his arms. Lovino helped as much as he could, now verbally expressing panic. After one last glance at the room, Alfred tossed the pack over his shoulder and bursted through the door with Lovino beaming hugely behind him, as they pushed and weaved through the congestion outside. Their eyes were transfixed on what little portion of the dock they could make out. The muggy pub air finally released its hold on Alfred’s lungs, and he felt his anxiety now blend with excitement. The atmosphere was buzzing with activity from rushing passengers to fluttering pigeons. 

 

And every sight and sound was evident through its aroma-- burning gas, cheap cologne, wool, and beneath it all, a smell that could only be described as a busy day. The sun beat down on their already bright faces and they bumped and rushed around. 

 

“We're riding in high style now!” Alfred shouted, ducking under a set of stairs that brought more passengers on board. His face was practically divided in half from his smarmy grin. As the two approached the ship, giggling like a couple of schoolboys just pranked their teacher, they found more obstacles to slip through. 

 

“We're a couple of regular swells! We're practically goddamn royalty, ragazzo mio!!” 

The dock grew more and more congested as more and more pushed to board. 

 

Lovino laughed wholeheartedly at that and his intonation grew brighter. “You see, it's my destino! Like I told you, I go to America to be milionario--”

 

They nearly crashed into a pair of horses trotting by, derailing them momentarily while Alfred swerved back.

 

“You’re pazzo!”

 

“Maybe, but  _ I’ve  _ got the tickets!”

 

He was amused by all the sights on deck, but certainly not surprised. As the two rushed by, he took note of all the action. Everyone was busy and desperate and thrilled. And whether they were waving goodbye or going together, the emotion was just as bold and evident. 

Vivid and clear.  _ Humane,  _ he thought to himself. And the first thing he was going to do once he settled on the ship was capture this raw humanity. His hand felt the outline of his sketchbook and he felt another wave of energy. There is so much more to do. 

 

“Come on! I thought you were fast!” He shouted back at his friend, his pace only quickening as he did so. With every slap of their feet on the ground, it only seemed that their energy was fed. The pair spotted the ramp leading into the lower section of the ship, and nearly skidded to a stop. “Whoah!” Alfred panicked, watching and sprinting in desperation as the doors were nearly shut. 

 

“W-Wait! Wait! Hey!”

 

In synch, the men pulled out their newly won tickets, the crinkle of crisp paper barely reaching their ears through the rumble of an ocean and the bustle of people. “Passengers! We’re passengers!”

The man, who was dressed from head to toe in a deep navy sailor uniform, looked them up and down briefly and looked them firmly in the eyes. 

 

“Have you been through the inspection queue?”

 

“Of course! Anyway, we don’t have any lice, we’re Americans… Both of us.”

 

“.... Right, come aboard.”

 

Like it were a buzzer, or the shot of a gun, his words sent the pair darting into the ship like they were beginning a marathon. No matter how long they had run, the adrenaline seemed to keep fueling itself within them. As they continued on, the cold air disappeared behind them. It smelled like fresh linen, paint, and a little bit of something like  _ human. _

 

The floor below them had a hollow yet sturdy ring to it with every step they took, and simply seeing the soft yellow light on white and oak wall panels satisfied the two to no end. It was like heaven, or something close to it. A hero ship, almost. Maybe even too good to be true. And the more they thought about it, the more they felt relieved. This meant less poverty. More hope. More freedom. More opportunity. 

 

“We’re the luckiest sons of bitches in the world, ya know that!?” Alfred practically shouted, expectedly, coming from the rural born man-child.

And as they crawled higher and higher toward the deck, the sounds of the people returned, and the only difference was the closeness of the ship’s horns. 

These were loud, and rumbly, and sent a slight vibration through the walls and the floors, and it gently rattled feet and eardrums. 

 

Sunlight and blue sky reached their eyes, and as did the many flapping skirts and waving arms. Hands reached over the deck toward loved ones or up toward the endless blue abyss, moving side to side in hopes of being seen. There were shouts like envelopes of mail flying back and forth from ten stories up all the way back down to one. Some voices seemed incomprehensible, yet no one cared, and somehow knew exactly what they were saying despite. There were white teeth and glimmering tears mixed with laughter like bubbles and cheers like fireworks. 

 

Even though the blond knew no faces, and found nothing familiar nor truly sentimental, his to-the-brim thrill turned his heart more than his mind could, and he shouted with the unfamiliar crowd. He was going home. At long last, after so long, he finally felt like there was something to look up to. “Goodbye!” he shouted, his voice racing the rumbles around him. “Goodbye, Goodbye!” 

 

“You know somebody!?” Lovino asked, sarcastically surprised and a little genuine. 

 

“Nah, of course not,  that’s not the point!” Alfred beamed in response. “Goodbye, I’ll miss you!” 

 

“Goodbye!!” the two shouted in unison. “I will never forget you!” Lovino practically screamed. 

 

It was like they had so much excess energy, it all boiled out of them in words. To Alfred and Lovino, most of their farewells were to the harsh living from the moments leading up to the pub. Leaving that lousy town meant leaving an old life behind. No more rude people, unnecessary work, or critics. No more crappy cold rainy mornings on the streets and judging looks from women in fur shawls. America sounded like more opportunity. More of that sweet, sweet, liberty. And it was half true that Lovino would never forget any of it. But Alfred wouldn’t miss any of it. Even if he missed the little things-- a couple of people who waved hello every morning, or those nice folks who always bought his sketches-- it wasn’t enough to anchor him down. 

With a sudden jolt, the grumbling grew more aggressive. With how subtle the movement may have been, it was still noticeable that over a thousand passengers were coasting away from the dock. A large gust of cool air hit the deck, and women held their hats to their heads.

 

Alfred shut his eyes tight and inhaled the fresh sea air calling to him. Things were slowly becoming more and more real. Life will soon be better. Promise wafted heavily in with that breeze. And it smelled sweet. He propped himself up on his toes and looked ahead. Nothing but miles of ocean were there. 

 

Three tugboats aided in moving the ocean liner out into it. It was like a baby being led by its hands in order to take its first steps. As if the shock value of its size weren’t enough either, a nearby sailboat was put to shame in the department of stature. The Titanic was like a giant. Revolutionarily massive. 

 

The two swashbuckling nerds watched their old home shrink before their eyes, people now becoming insects. 

 

As they made their way back to the third-class deck, so did everyone else. Titanic was practically a petri dish of humanity and politics. A good sample of social separation. A mini replica of economic systems.

Alfred noticed this as he climbed down many sets of stairs, viewing all sorts of hairstyles and shoe brands. Even the second-class deck was enough to make him feel a little shame over his ratty grey coat, hand-me-down vest, and worn out rucksack. Because there, at least several men had a decent pair of leather shoes, faux or not. His own boots were starting to thin down at the soles. 

 

It seemed, though, despite the fact the first and second classes had money, that the third-class deck was far more occupied compared to the latter. The comrades found themselves weaving through children clinging to their mothers, and bearded men who looked to be the fighting type if you so much as brushed their elbow.

 

They muttered their room number below their breaths so not to forget it. They scanned doors upon doors, Alfred occasionally looking behind him for a head of auburn hair to assure himself Lovino was still close behind. Soon enough, they came across a quiet corridor. They took a few seconds to recharge, the hallways being so stuffy to begin with. And to their further relief, the number  _ 316 _ was painted in gold on a white door before them. The rowdy american practically leapt at the doorknob.

 

“Oh, right here!!” The brand-new hinges barely creaked at all, as the door swung open. The room was very small, but nothing a couple of poor boys could ever complain about as they jetted across the sea. Two steel bunk beds sat adjacent to each other, adorned in green plaid sheets and one decent pillow. There was one small pothole-type window on the furthest wall which could open and close to their liking. As if it would be enough for four guests, there was a single oak dresser topped with a mirror. Maybe about five drawers were installed within.

Two blonde men were already beginning to settle into their beds. One with sandy and dark blonde hair sat on a bed, fixing his shoes and looking up with reef-blue eyes the moment Alfred bursted into the room. He wore a grey button-up with a tattered brown vest and some black trousers. His socks hung from the ladder of his bunk.

 

“Hey, How ya doin’!?” he shouted, thumping the seated man in the shoulder, and holding his hand out to the other, who was clearly shorter. 

 

“Alfred F. Jones, Nice to meet you!” The other man, white shirt sprinkled with drops of water, looked at him with hooded purple eyes and chin-length blonde hair. Which Al figured was self-maintained, because a single awkward curl lazily poked out.

 

He gave a neutral and not-all-there glance at his new roomie, likely wishing he’d leave, and continued to wipe his face with a rag. Paying no mind to it, the American gave him a good shoulder thump as well, nearly knocking the poor guy over. In a swift movement, he turned around and tossed his sack to the floor, finding Lovino had attempted to claim the top bunk. 

 

“Heeey, who says says you get top bunk, huh!?” he teased, as the other chuckled and swatted his hands away. 

 

“No Berwald?” the shoe guy whispered to the face-washer, who gave a simple shrug. 

 

Many decks above, a particular brunette woman with an ivory overcoat took proud strides as she gently grasped a bottle of fine champagne. Wood panels provided a soft tap to her shoes, and narrow windows lined a white and wood-decorated wall, which provided gentle daylight. An usher behind her had just finished his tour. She paid no heed to his appearance. 

 

“And this is your private promenade deck, madam. Would you be requiring anything?”

 

With one wave of her glass- holding hand, she dismissed him with a simple hum. 

 

“Excuse me.” With that, he went on his way. 

 

Calypso took one final inspection of the deck,, and escorted herself back into her and her fated to be husband’s living space.. The deeply stained spruce walls were lightly decorated in gold ornate embellishments. Leaflike designs were placed in a few areas, and were the base of the lighting fixtures along the sides of the room. In places that needed more accenting, such as the fireplace, there was a clamshell piece added to it. 

 

Atop this fireplace, was a single clock which blended well into the walls, and on one side, a china vase of pink and red roses. Baby’s breath were neatly nestled in between each magenta bloom. Soon enough, a maid in classic black and white uniform placed an identical bouquet on the other side, completing the room’s symmetry. As Cal’s eyes drifted from the flowers to the golden baroque-style mirror behind them, she caught a glimpse of her fiance’s pale blonde hair. Interest immediately piqued, she tuned in to his conversation with the maids. 

 

“This one?” a brunette maid asked, gesturing to a pastel colored painting with mere blots of color indicating shapes of lily pads and a bridge. 

 

“No, it had a lot of faces on it…” The man’s clear tone rang like a soft bell through the room, all eloquent and gentle. Everything about him was delicate. His light, leaf-green eyes searched the luggages beneath dark, long eyelashes. His hands had a smoothness to them, which held everything lightly as if he had a fear of breaking anything. This was perfectly demonstrated as he lifted a watercolor blue and yellow ochre portrait of different women to his eye level. 

 

“This is the one,” he stated, satisfied. 

“Would you like all of them out, sir?” 

 

“Yes. We need a little color in this room.” 

 

He propped it up on the sofa by a few others, each varying in size.  A train of men came through the doors carrying many more bags and boxes, each of which will be soon emptied into their large suite. 

 

“God, not those finger paintings again,” Cal called from the doorway, leaning against it, swirling her freshly poured glass of sparkling champagne. “They certainly were a waste of money.” She took a dainty sip with intentions of avoiding the chances her lipstick would escape to the glass. 

 

Arthur scoffed lightly as he examined his copy of Portrait of Ambroise Vollard. “The difference between Cal’s taste in art and mine is that I have some,” he half-muttered to himself. He moved to place it on the pale green canvas cushions of the sofa. 

 

“They’re… Fascinating. Almost like being in a dream or something.” He took more time to stare. The portrait wasn’t like any others a realist artist would create. It was all triangular shapes in varying tones from greyscale to paine’s grey to pale greens and tan. Hollowed eyes stared right into your own. 

 

“There’s truth, but no logic.”

 

“What's the artist's name?”

  
“Something Picasso.”

  
“‘Something Picasso?’ He won't amount to a thing. He won't, trust me.”   
  
Arthur gave the woman a side glance as he left the room, carrying some Monet with him as he went. She’d never understand his refined taste, because she has some crooked view of her own. He always believed that she lacked some sort of affinity for anything nice. Or ethic to say the least.

 

The mere fact she didn’t believe Pablo Picasso could make it anywhere came to show that she had no eyes for true artistry. After all, all Calypso Hockley ever had the need to wear were all shades of beige and white. On a good day, she’d wear plum. Arthur would always be the more colourful of the pair. 

 

“At least they were cheap,” He heard her murmur into her final sip of champagne. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. 

 

And he has to marry this woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been ages. But I'm back at it again, and I promise I won't leave this work for another year.


End file.
